


Seeds of Doubt

by LastAstronaut



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Dark fic, Detective!Deputy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Protagonist of Color, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Racism, Rating May Change, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAstronaut/pseuds/LastAstronaut
Summary: The last place Detective Noora Hamdi wants to be is Hope County, the place she grew up but never called home. It's not until her emotionally distant father is murdered that she returns to face old, festered wounds.At first, the case seems closed; the Sheriff's Office believes the attack to be a hate crime against one of the county's rare mosques, with a confession to snap it shut. But Noora can't help being a detective, even off the clock, and too many questions gnaw at her.What's worse—she worries her old friends from childhood, the Seed Siblings, might know the answers.(Detective AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags and avoid if these are troubling topics for you to read. The author of this fic does not condone the actions of antagonists or attempt to glamourize these topics.

The element of surprise when a homicide detective finds a dead body dissipates over time.

The memory of Noora’s first comes to mind now and then—sometimes in dreams, sometimes in the shower. No one forgets their first, if only to relive the sensation of a catapulting heartbeat and clammy palms. By the seventh body, she didn’t retch anymore, even went to lunch after.

The mess on the autopsy table in front of her, number forty-something by now, _should_ inspire a reaction, and not because of the gore that comes with being the victim of an explosion. Not because black charred skin sticks to him like tar or pink muscle weeps out parts of his face, the insulation once holding him together now exposed.

Noora should react because the victim is— _was_ her father.

The medical examiner watches her from across the table over his round glasses, his droopy eyes trapped between wiry silver eyebrows like an old tuxedo cat Noora once had. “I’m very sorry for your loss, detective.” He speaks gently, as if she’ll shatter. “Your father was a good, _good_ man.”

The practiced sincerity sparks envy—this whole time in her career she’s perfected empathetic reactions to the families of victims: rounded eyes, pinched brows, nods of encouragement as they shake. Now, being in their position, she’s got nothing. No choking on words or covering her mouth to stifle a scream, no trembling hands to at least keep up appearances.

She stares at the only intact part of her father’s face; what used to be his rich umber skin is now replaced by the dull sepia tone of old photographs. A white sheet bibs around his neck to hide the worst of his injuries.

“They have a kid in custody?” The words rasp out of her throat, catching on the cigarettes she inhaled for breakfast en route to the morgue.

The examiner nods.

⁂

The kid in custody is 19-year-old Luke Barrett. Noora recalls the name, maybe from a news segment, and it’s not until she’s at the Sheriff’s Office on the peeping end of a two-way mirror that her memory places him. Luke Barrett, little brother of Tyler Barrett. Big brother ran an impressive meth lab operation a few years back that ended with half a trailer park engulfed in flames. Three dead, twelve injured.

Her sights lock on Luke, committing every detail to memory, sizing him up as if the cops would even allow her to interrogate him. His body drowns in a black hoodie and his damp beige hair clings to pitted grey skin. His bloodshot eyes dart from the clock to the door to the handcuffs linking his wrists, harmonizing with knees bouncing under the desk. The symphony of a tweaker.

She squeezes the styrofoam cup in her hand until the material squeaks, water rising up to the lip.

“Noora.”

Her attention snaps to Sheriff Earl Whitehorse. “What?”

His heavy mustache frames the frown dragging the corners of his mouth, the only audible noise between them buzzes from the fluorescent light in the room. “I was sayin’ he confessed immediately. Hell, before we even finished asking the damn question.”

She peers through the mirror again, but catches her reflection, at the perfect reproduction of her father’s scowl, hunched forward with black shadows under her eyes. The similarity burns through her gut, and she straightens her posture and relaxes the lines on her face.

“You got a place to stay?”

“We still got our old cabin by Cedar Lake.”

Earl makes a tired, whistling sound through his nose, and squeezes her shoulder. “Hey. Why don’t I drive you there?”

Noora’s lip twitches, something like a smile. “I drove.”

“I’ll drop the jeep off for you later.”

“Really, it’s okay.”

“Will you at least lemme treat you to dinner? You keep losin’ more weight and I’m bound to worry.”

“Earl.” Their eyes meet. “You’re fussing.”

He leans in, boring into her with his deep wells of watering eyes and close enough that she smells the coffee on his breath. “This is a situation worth fussing over, Noora.”

Earl is the type of Sheriff who would've made a great coach. The type who calls suspects "son," or "sweetheart," and hypnotizes them to do the right thing with his dopey olive-green eyes. The thought of disappointing him was too great a burden, and most suspects end up weeping at him with snotty apologies.

When Noora decided to leave Hope County to be a cop in New York City, he choked up; the gentle giant is always the first to wipe a tear away when something hits his heart, and she can’t remember a thing that _didn’t_ hit Earl’s heart.

He told her he was so damn proud of her, something her father never did.

Earl nods to the door. "C'mon, walk with me."

”I have more questions-”

”I know you do, kid. Let’s talk outside where you can focus on what I’m sayin’ instead of tryin’ to set this jackass on fire with your mind.”

She rolls her eyes away to the door and Earl follows, palm hovering on her back, to the chilled hallway that smells of faint ammonia and burnt coffee. She tosses the cup of water in a trash can and crosses her arms. “News said it was a pipe bomb. That true?”

His mouth opens and closes, followed by another whistling sigh. "He used an RPG-7."

Noora's eyes bulged, her mouth agape. "A rocket launcher? Where'd he get that? Who's the supplier?" The questions come in clipped, terse bursts.

He speaks quietly, like the medical examiner, and she wants to scream. "We're investigating every possible lead. I got my best on this."

Heat spreads from the nape of her neck to the tip of her ears. "You gotta give me more than that, Earl. What else do you know?"

"Noora, this might be too-" he surveys the hallway, noting a lone officer fiddling with the nozzle of a water cooler, "- _sensitive_." She’s about to retort, but he digresses. "I just don't want to put any additional pressure on you during an already stressful time," he says with the care of a bomb disposal technician.

Noora scoffs, fingers digging into her hips, head shaking at her own thoughts chanting _bullshit bullshit bullshit_.

"Your old man mentioned what happened-"

"We aren't talking about that," she snaps, index finger slicing toward Earl to underline her point. "That wasn’t his information to provide. Now if you don't tell me what's going on, you know I'll find out myself."

Earl rubs the back of his neck, chin tucked and shoulders dropped.

”C’mon, Earl. _Please_.”

His voice comes out in a croak. "There's a group callin' themselves Men of the Night. White Power fuckers popped up a couple years ago. Luke's older brother Tyler, you remember him? Blew himself up with that meth lab?" 

She nods.

"Tyler used to run with them way back. They been able to get their hands on some serious firepower. I mean _black market_ shit. Once Luke comes down from whatever the hell he's tweakin' on, we'll get him talkin’, find out where he got the launcher."

She picks at the cuticle of her middle finger with the corner of her thumbnail. She needs a cigarette soon. “Where do they usually hang out?”

Now Earl crosses his arms, corrects his posture. “And what do you plan to do with that information?”

”I’m curious,” she lies. “I know racist fucks exist, but haven’t seen groups organize like this in a while. Least not out in the open.”

His eyes narrow. “Uh huh.” She frowns at him again and he huffs, “Look, kid. You know I love you like you’re one of my own-”

She mutters a quiet, “here we go,” under her breath.

”-and that doesn’t change the fact that I’m the Sheriff of this damn county. I can’t have you interfere with an investigation or cause any harm to civilians, whether they’re pieces of shit or not.”

”Causing _harm_ to civ-” she stops to speak low. “Harming civilians? Are you fucking serious?”

”Honey, you honestly want me to believe that shit like this doesn’t set you off?”

She raises her palms in surrender, biting her tongue, and moves toward the lobby of the station. She hears him trail behind with measured footsteps, and feels his palm on the small of her back.

”Hey,” he slows her movements to a stop and she faces his glinting wet eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just tryin’ to help.”

She offers what she hopes is a smile of forgiveness, but presses her lips together too thin. He’s too kind, too pure, too anything-Noora-isn’t, and she’ll need to get creative to learn more.

”And I’m so sorry for all of this.” He rubs her shoulders before wrapping his arms around her in a tight bearhug, forcing an _oof_ sound out of her lungs. He sniffles against her shoulder. “Faisal was such a good man.”

Noora splays her palms and attempts to pat his back, trying her best to not jerk her neck back to keep distance, not that he’d let her. When Earl sniffles again she rolls her eyes upward and shuts them, counting down from 3 in her thoughts. She mumbles, “Thanks, Earl.”

⁂

Outside the Sheriff’s Office, Noora squints through sunglasses at the cigarette dangling from her mouth, flicking an uncooperative lighter with one hand while shielding the impotent sparks with the other.

Behind her, a familiar voice calls out.

"Noora?" John Seed drawls like _Nora_ , and in a better mood she'd grin and correct with " _New-rruh_ ," to reignite old banter.

It’s been, _shit_ , at least 15 years—now John wears a long beard tapered neatly with his dark brown hair slicked back; the same electric blue eyes with new crow's feet that pinch when he flashes pearly teeth and dimpled cheeks.

"Paying the Sheriff a visit, Johnny?" She asks with the first genuine smile of the day, tucking the unlit cigarette behind her ear.

He throws his head back with a booming laugh— _that_ hasn’t changed—closing in with a quick, tight hug. "It's different now. I try to help the locals in need, save them when they're at their lowest."

”I heard you’ve got quite a community up here now.”

John’s eyes widen to match his grin, bouncing on the tip of his toes. “You’ve seen the billboards?”

”Yeah, what was it? The Power of-”

He finishes for her with a roar, “Yes!”

Her eyebrows raise. ”Y-yeah, _yes_. That. They’re, uh, pretty hard to miss." They share a smile. "It’s good to see you helping people.”

He waves a dismissal and sighs. “It’s not _all_ my doing, of course. My brothers and sister are reaching out to as many as we can. You should stop by one of our services. You know that Eden’s Gate will always welcome you.”

A snort escapes her and she masks it with a cough into a closed fist. “You know I’ve never been the religious type.”

”You know I’ll invite you either way,” he counters with a singsong to his voice, head tilted playfully.

John may have given up his career path as a lawyer to do— _whatever_ he does at his brother Joseph’s church—but his infectious charisma wears like second skin. When it comes to the industry of the lost and hopeless, there’s always something to sell, always someone to buy. Noora once had faith to connect with her father, even helped him build the mosque that is now an active crime scene. She stopped practicing when it became clear that nothing could make her old man happy, hell, half the time she never knew if he listened when she spoke.

She tries not to think about it much.

“I heard what happened to your father and the other believers at his mosque.” The airiness in his voice dips to a somber tone. He rests an open palm on his chest, revealing new tattoos on his hand that she doesn’t recognize, words that look like Latin. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Noora.”

Her jaw clenches. The pulse in her neck pulls taut and she covers it with her hand, pretending to itch at her throat.

”Even though we had different beliefs, our family greatly admired Faisal. He taught us so much. If we can help you with anything, you only need to ask.”

”Thanks John,” she responds too quick, too flat. His eyebrow quirks at her response, and she changes the subject before he inquires. “Could I ask you something?”

She pulls her sunglasses up, the wire frames tangling with coarse, rogue strands of hair that she’ll need to yank out individually later. Her nose itches at the sudden afternoon brightness and the biting spice of John’s cologne doesn’t help.

She holds his alert stare, the sun stinging her eyes. _Good_ , she thinks. _Maybe now it looks like I’m crying_. 

“Y’know anything about the kid they have in there? Luke Barrett?”

His posture deflates like a wilting flower, palm rubbing in a circle on his chest. “I’ve tried to save Lucas and his brother many times. I’m afraid he’s too lost.”

She puts on her Very-Supportive-And-Patient-Detective voice, smooth as silk and feather-light. ”You think anyone helped him out? Maybe someone not as open to different beliefs like your family?”

A grin creeps on his mouth, almost a leer. “Ever the detective,” he teases with knowing eyes. “I still remember when you discovered Principal Collins was stealing money from the Jeffries’ church. You know, Jerome told me that he wouldn’t have been able to take over for his father if it wasn’t for the money reclaimed. Did he ever tell you that?”

She hums through a tight-lipped smile, her thumb picking at her cuticle again. “You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone providing,” she scans for the right word, “a _sanctuary_ of sorts for a white supremacist group, would you?”

His brows scrunch together, voice clear and stern like he’s under oath. “I have not noticed anyone or any _thing_ suspicious. And it is my duty to report a crime should anyone _confess_ to it.”

The way he hisses the word _confess_ makes her stomach twist, but she nods her head anyway. “All right then. Sorry, John. Not my intention to offend, I just had to ask.”

And he’s back from playing defense, standing tall and beaming, the televangelist-in-making oozing out of every charming pore. “Of course, Noora. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

Noora’s lips part, about to blurt, “That makes two of us,” when a wave of exhaustion hits that makes her want to drive far away and drink herself to sleep. Her cheeks puff out with a loud exhale, but John doesn’t notice, just keeps talking.

”I’d like to help with your investigation, Noora. Whatever you or the Sheriff need. I have several connections from my law firm,” he trails off, attention flickering to the open road behind them at the end of the parking lot.

She follows his line of sight to a black pickup truck slowing down and pulling over. Her muscles twitch and she slides her hands into her jacket pockets, digging her fingernails into her palm.

The driver is unmistakably Jacob Seed, John’s oldest brother. His bright ginger hair gives him away, coiffed at the top of his head with the sides shaved clean. Like John, he’s also grown a beard, though bushier. The driver window rolls down and Jacob leans out to address his brother when he sees Noora. His signature glower pulls into a lopsided smirk and he nods once, lifting only his pointer and middle finger from the steering wheel to greet with a subtle wave.

Her chest tightens and her fists burrow deeper in her pockets. With a held breath, she tries to smile and hopes she doesn’t look like a _complete_ mess with her unkempt hair and bare face, all the color drained from a steady diet of coffee, cigarettes, and bourbon.

The last time she saw Jacob Seed, she was drunk with Grace Armstrong. Noora was flying out to New York, and Grace to Afghanistan. They needed one more irresponsible night at the Spread Eagle bar, with its permanent stink of lost beers soaking through the hardwood floor and cheap food saturated with grease.

Noora remembers the night in snippets. First, seeing Jacob through the haze of cigarette smoke, alone in a dark booth facing the entrance. He watched her like he knew something she didn’t, his ice blue eyes hungry and lower lip caged between his teeth. Sometime between the alcohol and her discreetly unbuttoning the top of her blouse, he’d decided she wasn’t his little brother’s annoying friend anymore.

The second memory was blurry, but definitely in the alley behind the bar. The brick bit into Noora’s back as Jacob held her waist, pinning her hips with his. She remembers how he silenced her giggles with a bruising kiss, their tongues rushing to taste each other. He towered over her, lifted her up, rough hands taking an opportunistic squeeze of her ass.

They stopped, she can’t recall why, and the night ended in her own bed where she furiously masturbated, biting her pillow to muffle her wrecked voice. _That_ was the last time she saw and spoke to Jacob Seed.

John’s voice cuts through her memory, “Well I’m afraid I have to go, but,” he pulls a pamphlet pulled from his breast pocket and offers it. She takes it, and he holds her hand between both of his. “Please stop by our community when you can. We’d love to see you.”

Noora nods, a question forming on her face when he doesn’t let go.

He leans forward, mischief etched across his features like they were teenagers again and pulling a prank on an unfortunate substitute teacher. His voice lowers, “And I _know_ you’d love to see Jacob.”

John turns away before she can respond, gravel crunching under his shining crocodile leather shoes when he saunters to the passenger side of Jacob’s truck. She watches them drive away, chewing the inside of her cheek and reeling from what John meant, if he knew about that night at the bar.

She glances at the pamphlet, loosening her grip when she notices the paper crumpling in her fist. It’s a simple design, no splashy colors, just a black and white illustration of a beautiful garden behind closed gates. She recalls the sketches John drew in her high school notebooks, though those were often unflattering caricatures of kids they didn’t like. The art on this pamphlet is at least clean, inviting.

It beckons in bold, capitalized letters: **JOIN THE MARCH TO EDEN’S GATE!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and avoid if these are troubling topics for you to read. The author of this fic does not condone the actions of antagonists or attempt to glamourize these topics.

Noora heads east in no particular rush, preferring a long route back to the cabin to see what’s changed in the County over the last fifteen years. Everything is still open and lush and _green_ , and it all translates to anxiety seeping into her cells. She already misses the congestion of New York City; its unapologetic commotion and pungent stink flows through the streets like blood, its rot proudly stretching from the deepest gutters to the highest skyscrapers.

It should feel refreshing to steer the wheel with two lazy fingers, to glide across the wide-open country roads, but all this space makes her breathing so fast to the point of dizziness. Her mouth is dry, the bitter taste of the morgue’s air still lingering, and so she’s contained herself in familiarity: rolled-up windows and hip hop blaring from the speakers, the thump of the bass vibrating under her seat to jolt her nerves awake.

She slows after seeing a neon sign for Cougar Convenience, a reminder of hierarchical needs, specifically in the order of cigarettes, beer, and whatever microwaveable sludge that won’t test the lining of her gut. She doesn’t recognize the store or the lone silver heavy-duty pickup truck she passes by on her way to the front door. It’s spotless, almost appealing if it wasn’t for the tacky orange and red flame decals painted across the doors.

Noora pushes the door, alerting the clerk from behind the register when the chimes ring. He nods a greeting, and squints in recognition. She doesn’t give him a chance to stare too long, slinking away between shelves of aggressive markdowns and darting toward the cloudy glass of the fridge at the back. She scrunches her nose at how the sole of her boots stick to the floor and peel off, the sound is like ripping tape and it itches her eardrums.

If this was Manny’s bodega from across her Brooklyn apartment, she’d float in all relaxed limbs and loose movements, asking about his kids as he rings in her order without a prompt. He’d mumble, “Getting bigger every day, boss,” before pulling out the newest smartphone on the market to flaunt photos of four children with wide brown eyes and deep ochre skin beaming at the photographer.

If Manny had a questionable side-hustle then Noora played dumb and ignored the clues, fulfilling an unspoken pact between folks of color in the city trying to make multiple ends meet as they pull in opposite directions.

The guy at the counter she _knows_ , she can feel it, but she’s not sure from where. The anticipation churns in the pit of her stomach.

Noora scans the beer selection by alcohol ratings, grinding her teeth and telling herself that the clerk is probably no one—after all, a white male with blue eyes and a goatee in a hoodie and baseball cap is more or less the staple citizen uniform in Hope County. For now, she calls him Not-Manny in her head.

 _4.2%… 6%… 9.5%? Bingo._ She exhales in relief and snakes her arm through the fridge door she propped open with the tip of her boot, plucking out a six-pack. The brightness of the yellow and red label contrasts with the chestnut bottle of the imperial stout: Ivan the Terrible, the label reads, and on it a jovial man with a bushy beard grins at her.

A bushy beard that makes her think of Jacob.

And thinking of Jacob stirs a curiosity about the store’s condom selection.

 _Just in case,_ she thinks, barely aware of how her feet already shuffled to a display of cheap tampons, lubricant sealed in dented plastic casing, and about seven different types of condom packages that she doesn’t recognize.

_Latex, non-latex, ultra thin, ribbed… what the fuck did I use last time?_

Like a sudden cramp seizing her insides, she wants to fold over and groan in embarrassment at not remembering the last time she got laid. The void that is her sex life is almost impressive; Noora could carry a trophy to celebrate it like a world record achievement, maybe a pageant sash with MISS UNFUCKABLE written across in gold glitter to _really_ spell it out.

Noora shakes her head out of her thoughts and grumbles, stalking back through the aisles as quick as she can without raising suspicion. She picks up whatever food is fast and easy, ending up with a basket filled with nuclear-orange pasta abominations and a handful of protein bars.

She approaches the front counter. It’s littered with uncapped, knocked-over empty bottles of energy shots. Not-Manny is drumming his fingers on the acrylic that guards scarce, lopsided lottery tickets. “Evenin’ ma’am,” his voice bellows deep and rough, and she doesn’t expect it for someone of his petite stature.

”Hey there,” she mutters, distracted by the local newspaper sticking out from the stand next to the counter.

The headline reads MAYOR MINKLER CONDEMNS LOCAL HATE CRIME with an old photo of Virgil Minkler and her father shaking hands and facing the camera, the unbombed mosque standing behind them. The photo was taken the day the mosque opened. It was the happiest she’d ever seen him after her mother died.

Noora slides a copy of the paper from the stand and places it next to the basket on the countertop. She points to the wall of cigarettes behind him. “Parliaments?”

”Fancy type ain’tcha?” Not-Manny jokes, baring chipped, stained teeth. He stretches behind, forcing out a strained noise. He grabs the white and blue package and turns back, rotating the cuff of his shoulder with a grunt. He checks the barcode and taps at the keys of the register, his mouth pulling into a smirk. He gestures toward Noora with the pack, shaking it at her. “Y’know I gotta ask you somethin’ or else it’s gonna bug me all night.”

Noora’s jaw sets, but she tilts her head, waiting.

”Did you go to Silver Lake High?”

God, just the words _high school_ make Noora want to shove her face into her open palms and scream. The back of her neck flares hot at the unwanted memories: skinny, black arches drawn where her eyebrows should’ve been, forcing three bites of lunch out into a toilet bowl with her fingers, the severe kohl liner smudged underneath her eyes.

“Yeah,” she stretches the word, eyes narrowing at him.

”Ha! I knew I recognized you from the moment you jingled through my door. Not too many, uh, _exotic_ chicks around here. I don’t mean that in a distasteful way or nothin’, just sayin’, I remember those big dark eyes of yours.” 

Noora hums through a forced smile.

He extends his arm for a handshake. “I’m Sharky Boshaw.”

She shakes his hand and recognition clicks in her mind. “Sharky? Weren’t you the one who started a fire at prom?”

”Allegedly,” he quickly corrects. “And I was at _a_ prom, not my own. Dropped out, actually. Opened up this place and started a new gig on the side.” His eyes widen. “Oh!” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a shredded wallet held together by duct tape. He pinches the corner of a business card from a torn flap and hands it to Noora. “Check me out if you ever want your gear touched up.”

The card reads:  
_Burning Desire Designs©_  
_Sharky Boshaw_  
_Vinylus Decalist_  


”Huh. Thanks.” She pats her jacket pockets until she feels the bulge of her badge that she also uses as a wallet. She digs it out, searching for a bill as Sharky keys in her purchases on the cash register.

"Whoa, hey!" He lifts his hands up in a mock surrender and grins. "NYPD? God fuckin' _damn_. You're a long way from home, huh?" He clears his throat and lifts his head to appear taller. "Oh, and uh, just in case you were thinkin' it, not that I'd be worried if you were thinkin' it or whatever, but I only provide decals for registered weapons. Y'know, legally acquired and shit."

At that, Noora snorts. "S'okay, Sharky. I'm here for some personal stuff. Me-time."

"That right? Well you sure picked a helluva fuckin' place for R&R." He sweeps his arms out, palms facing up. "Come on over to see Hope County's mountains, rivers, and the fuckin' Eden's Gate freakshow!" He laughs, bitter, and punches in more numbers on the cash register. He mutters to himself, "Put _that_ on a fuckin' pamphlet."

Her eyebrows raise. "Not a fan?"

Sharky stops to look at her like two more heads sprouted from her shoulders. "Uh, no? You _kiddin'_ me? Newsflash, sweetheart. That Joseph Seed and his creepy Manson cult family is fuckin' evil."

Her body tenses, memories of the County's volatile gossip mill rushing to the forefront of her mind as another angry flush heats across her chest. The Seed siblings have long been a family of tragedy and misfortunes. They were stranded on the bottom rung of society and it all started with a fire that killed their abusive parents. The police officially ruled it an accident, but the locals started to whisper about _those Seeds_.

Rumors spread that Joseph spoke to demons and Faith was a witch, or that John tortured small animals and Jacob ate human flesh; _those Seeds_ were murderers, or Satanists, or cursed, and who could be surprised after what their parents had done to them?

Noora frowns the more she thinks about it. "I can't believe people still say that shit about them. You know they been through hell, right?"

He brays like a jackass and it makes her clench her fingers into a fist for a moment before stretching them back out with a quiet exhale through her nose. The cash register tray bursts open and Sharky stops it with the tips of his fingers. He shakes his head, clearing his throat to stop from laughing more. "Oh, c'mon now. Don't tell me you're some kinda Peggy sympathizer."

"Peggy?"

"Yeah, Peggy! Y'know, People of Eden's Gate?" He spells it out. "P-E-G?"

She blinks at him, and his face turns serious.

"Lady, I don't know how long you been gone, but the Seeds ain't some friendly religious community. They're bullyin' honest folk off their property and armin' up to the teeth for the _’End Times’_ ," he emphasizes with air quotes. "I’m all for the right to bear arms but they’re fuckin' lunatics, man."

Noora's thoughts race with comparisons she doesn't want to make—Rajneeshpuram, Jonestown, the Branch Davidians. She knows Johnny Seed better than to see him get involved in that sociopathic crap. She shrugs, playing her nerves off, wanting to end the conversation immediately. "I didn't know, I left Hope County long ago and just got in this morning."

Sharky drops her items in a plastic bag and hangs the ring of the handles on two fingers. "Well for your sake I hope you ain't stickin' around for long. You be careful with them Seeds. Don't fall for their victim bullshit.”

She tugs the bag away from him. The wrinkled plastic almost slips out of her sweaty palms.

"I mean, shit. I'd bet my right testicle they had somethin' to do with that fuckin' bomb going off."

There's a sound of rushing water in her ears and her mouth dries. The air feels suddenly thick, slow. "That right?" She croaks.

”Mmhmm.”

Noora wets her lips. “So why’re you telling me? Shouldn’t you share that with the Sheriff?”

"Ha! The Sheriff's Office. They might as well be Peggy security detail with how much cult dick they've got in their mouths." He scoffs, and adds, "Brings a new meaning to _seed_ , huh."

Her follow-up words die on her too-dry lips, unable to form a proper sentence as her stomach also lurches. She nods a farewell and rushes out of the convenience store, holding her breath until she gets to the jeep and clutches at her stomach.

Whatever contents she had in her stomach project out of her mouth and spill on the gravel next to the front wheel. She holds her hair back into a makeshift ponytail with her free hand until she’s done retching, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

Noora’s breath comes out in pants. She opens the driver’s seat and tosses the plastic bag to the passenger side. She surveys the parking lot to make sure she’s alone while pulling a beer bottle out of the six-pack. She lodges her key against the cap and pops it off, relishing in the hissing sound. She pours beer into the empty to-go paper coffee cup, looking around once more before placing the drink back in the cup holder.

⁂

It’s finally nighttime.

Noora stands in the small kitchen in the cabin, slushing around macaroni and cheese in a pot with a wooden spoon. The stovetop fan is off; she hopes the scent of “cooking” wafts into the living room to replace the musky smell coming from the decades-old upholstery. She stirs in the radioactive cheese powder with one hand while draining down beer number three. A hiccup erupts from her chest and she feels the liquid bubble up her windpipe, then swallows it down. She switches the heat to a low setting before heading to the fridge for a fourth beer.

Noora grips the fridge door handle and squeezes, slowing her breath. She might as well look at what she’d been ignoring, an alien form of recognition pinned to the fridge with a red and white plaid magnet. It’s a newspaper clipping; a photo of her former self, thirty five founds heavier, a wide smile on her wide face in her fresh, stiff police uniform. The headline reads, ‘First Arab American Woman Promoted to Homicide Detective.’

Why her father posted that on the fridge, she had no idea. She still remembers his signature scowl when she told him about joining the police academy. He barely let out a grunt in response. This act of parental pride feels _wrong_ , like a lie hardening into a tumor.

A sudden rattling noise startles her out of her thoughts, and she realizes her phone is vibrating obnoxiously against the granite counter. She shuffles over to see the caller ID tell her it’s Eddie Perez, her partner in the NYPD. Noora throws her head back and sighs before cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. She mutters a neutral, “Hey,” and switches the stovetop off.

“Hey!” Eddie exhales into the receiver, relieved. “You were supposed to call me when you got in.”

She grimaces and pretends to sound pained. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

Eddie scoffs. “No you didn’t, Hammy.”

His ability to read through her even over the phone makes her grin.

It wasn't always like that with Eddie, a Dominican-born and Bronx-raised hero cop that kids call before they'd dial 911. He was on Narcotics before transferring to Homicide, and he had the whole grumpy-weathered-cop-stuck-with-an-annoying-rookie routine down to a tee. He called her "Montana" at first, but after six months of Noora putting her head down, filing all their paperwork, and obeying every one of his demands, he lightened up. About a year into their partnership, his wife kicked him out, and they got drunk together for the first time. What solidified their friendship was an explosive debate over which was a greater hip hop debut— Noora says _Enter the Wu-Tang_ , and Eddie says _Doggystyle_. This resulted into a nickname upgrade from "Montana" to "kiddo," then sometimes lovingly, "stupid," but usually, "Hammy." 

Noora’s voice softens. “Really, I’m sorry. It's already been a weird day.”

”Well that’s why I’m checkin’ in. My spidey senses got all tingly. You okay?”

She shrugs, even though he can’t see it. “As okay as I can be, I guess.” She holds the phone proper now with a free hand, and looks out the window above the sink, looking into the dark backyard.

Eddie sighs. “Yeah, I bet. Listen, I want you to remember what I said yesterday, okay?”

She notices a rustling in the shrubs, and holds her breath.

“I know stuff with your family gets you all, y’know, not thinkin’ straight and shit.” As the bushes jerk, Noora remembers her father storing a number of guns in different areas of the cabin, particularly a double barrel shotgun mounted underneath the kitchen sink. She moves slowly but with determination, using her foot to prop open the cabinet doors under the sink. Eddie continues, “But if you ever wanna talk, you know I’m here. I’m just a phone call away. If things get bad, shit, I’ll come get you myself, Hammy.”

The shrubbery ripples harder. Noora kneels, reaching inside and up into the cabinet to feel for the weapon. She finds it, and carefully unmounts it without bumping it into the sides of the cabinet.

”Hammy? You still there?”

”I’ll call you back,” she grumbles. “Something’s in the backyard.”

Eddie snorts. “What, like a bear?”

”Maybe. I’ll call you back.”

The last thing Eddie says before she hangs up is, “Wait. You fuckin’ serious?”

She cracks open the action to find two shells already loaded in, and closes it. Noora slides the window open slowly, easing the tip of the barrel out less than an inch, aiming at the bushes.

There’s silence. She narrows her eyes in the stillness, pressing her lips together as her finger rests on the trigger.

The pointy face of a curious raccoon peeks out of the bush, instantly locking it’s glowing eyes at Noora in the window. It scrambles backward, the leaves shaking in a flurry until they stopped and there was no sight of the animal.

Noora’s shoulders relax, and she throws her head back to let out a melodramatic groan. She sets the shotgun down on the countertop, and picks up her phone to text Eddie. She writes, **_”Fucking raccoon.”_**

Eddie writes back, **_”Nice one, cowgirl.”_**

Noora huffs out a laugh, her heart slowing down from its racing pace.

**_”Get some sleep. Don’t forget what I said. You need anything, I’m here. OK?”_ **

She smiles at her phone. **_”Thanks Eddie.”_**

⁂

She slouches down on the couch and eats the too-soggy macaroni and cheese with a fork from the pot, her feet propped up on the wooden coffee table. Of course, there’s no internet at a cabin in the middle of the woods, so all she can do is stare at the fireplace mantel where a photo of her long-dead mother smiles at her.

She stretches to her overnight bag and rifles through her things until she pulls out two orange-colored pill bottles, one labeled Venlafaxine and the other Trazadone. She shakes the first and mumbles, “Wakey,” and shakes the other with a following, “Sleepy.” It’s her own ritual, a bit of paranoia that sprouted after she once took the night one in the morning and almost fell asleep during an interrogation. She swallows a pill from the Sleepy bottle, chasing it down with beer and a mouthful of macaroni.

Noora reaches over to her jacket thrown over the couch’s arm and pulls out the crumpled up pamphlet from the breast pocket. Her chewing slows as she flips open the first page to see a drawing of a man standing outside the same gates from the pamphlet’s cover. His arms are spread out, welcoming the reader. The caption reads, “Those who seek freedom need wander no more. Within these words lie a path to Eden’s Door.” The quote is attributed to Joseph Seed.

Noora tries to remember Joseph, but can only remember that he worked a lot of odd jobs when she and John would hang out in their family's living room reading comic books. Her brain itches at the feeling of another memory of him, maybe one where Jacob was there, but nothing materializes. She continues flipping through the pamphlet, scanning verses from what’s referred to as “The Book of Joseph.”

”Oh Johnny,” Noora mumbles to herself. “What did you get yourself into now?”

Her eyelids droop down, the sleeping pill working quick on her already-exhausted body, but she jolts awake and continues to skim passages on the following pages. She lands on a specific verse, one that reaches out to her, and she pictures what could be Joseph’s voice flowing through her tired and buzzing thoughts:

”If you are reading these words, then there is hope.  
Hope is the rock on which we build our future.  
Know that you are not alone.  
Know that you are loved.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a second chapter after life got in my way. Feedback and suggestions are very appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and avoid if these are troubling topics for you to read. The author of this fic does not condone the actions of antagonists or attempt to glamourize these topics.

The next morning Noora blinks awake and lifts off the couch, wiping the drool connecting her to the pilled fabric. She opens her eyes wide and closes them tight until her jumbled thoughts take shape amidst a fog thick with Trazadone. She palms at her phone. It’s 10:22 a.m.

The realization catapults her off the couch. She decides to go for a run before collecting intel on the Men of the Night, her father’s alleged murderers. She changes into her gear: tights, a faded tee that says MEN HAVE MADE A LOT OF BAD ART, a Colt Detective Special concealed and holstered under a zip-up hoodie, and a Yankees baseball cap. Her lower back aches in protest from not sleeping on a bed as she scrapes the metallic taste of the sleeping pill off her tongue.

Outside, her spine erupts in a violent shiver at the breeze. She kicks out her feet and rotates her shoulders, grunting at each creak and pop. By the time she eases into a jogging pace, she’s crossed the bridge to the now shut-down Grand View Hotel, her first preference of stay for this trip. The windows are barred and boarded, the entrance overgrown with weeds; a sign on the front door says it’s closed until further notice.

She wonders how the closure affects the tourism scene, if that’s why time seems to stop moving in Hope County, like all the air from the mountains and plains and rivers sucked up in a vacuum, leaving an embalmed corpse behind.

Noora recalls the hotel’s website touting nearby breathtaking scenery. She scans the deserted parking lot and spots a brown and white hiking sign. She follows the upward path, grounding her thoughts to the balls of her feet bouncing off the earth and splashing into sparse rainwater puddles.

Her therapist calls it that— _grounding_. He says it helps with anxiety. She doesn’t like him much with his frumpy sweater vests and colorful socks, like he’s a peacock in the animal kingdom of douchebags, but Noora needs more men in her life who are capable of expressing a range of emotions. They are evidently a rare breed.

He wouldn’t like that joke. He’d ask her, “Did you notice how you refer to the men in your life like a taxonomy? Do you think it’s easier for you to see them in a scientific, clinical way? To depersonalize them?” He asks her questions that way, all in a row, like an asshole.

He at least helps her meditate, so she sometimes imagines his voice pouring into her ears, guiding her, much to her stubborn chagrin. He would say, “Focus on how the incline of the hill burns through your thighs, or the smell of dry dirt and faraway campfire. Let your mind linger on the heat building in your chest and stretching up your neck, or the lines of sweat beading from your hair.”

He would say, ”Don’t focus on your father’s disfigured face or the stench of charred flesh.”

He would say, ”Don’t wonder if Joseph Seed killed your father.”

Noora trips over a branch.

She lunges off-path toward a tree, hands out to stop her fall. “Fuck,” she gasps under labored breaths and rubs her thumb where the bark stung her skin. She thinks, _Fuck you for messing with my head like this, Sharky fucking Boshaw,_ knowing it’s unfair to blame him.

She knows John. She knows Jacob. She didn’t have a chance to know Joseph or Faith, but there’s no way they could be involved. Hell, if they were involved, Johnny and Jake would be oblivious. She _knows_ this. Even if the People of Eden’s Gate are a cult, she remembers growing up with the Seeds, knows they would protect her and her father.

 _Those Seeds_ the local spit about, _those Seeds_ who welcomed her with spread arms. When schoolmates sneered at her thick, curly hair, gagged at her Middle Eastern dishes during lunchtime, and shoved her in the realm of being an outsider, of being hated, of hating herself, it was _those Seeds_ who accepted her.

"Right," she sighs out loud, to no one. _Right?_

Noora’s strained breath evens, no longer drowning out the hum of insects and birds, and that’s when the high-pitch whine of an animal startles her. She cranes her neck to the source and jerks to a flash of movement through the thicket of bronze and russet trees.

The revolver tucked under her hoodie pokes into her side, a reminder. She brushes past the decaying branches and leaves, astray from the path, seeking the whimpers out, and halts in plain view of two armed men standing next to a dark wooden crate and an ATV.

One man’s scraggly beard and hair shadows his features, but the body armor and AK-47 padding him are clear as day. The other man wears a tomato-red ski mask that sticks out like a sore thumb in contrast to his black leather vest and jacket. If these men want to be stealthy, they must be rookies.

The creature in the crate growls, likely a wolf, or a rabid coyote.

The bearded one jumps when he sees her, raises his rifle.

Her blood freezes.

"Hey!” He barks and gestures to the trail behind her with the barrel of his rifle. “Keep on movin’ sweetheart.”

Noora surrenders her hands, and like a dumbass cop too nosy for her own good, she nods to the crate. “There a problem?”

Red Mask squeezes the grip of his rifle, eyes bulging in the absence of the rest of his face. His mouth shifts under the fabric, muffling his voice, but it still echoes in the woods. “There won’t be one if you just keep walking, lady.”

Noora’s eyes bounce between the men and the snarling animal. Her mind scrambles at possible next moves—each of them foolish—when both men straighten their posture and gawk at something behind her. They lower their firearms.

She hears a gruff voice from the trail. “At ease, brothers.”

She swivels to find Jacob Seed squinting under the bright sunlight, his arms crossed against his barrel of a chest. His expression is bored, unamused, slightly inconvenienced, as she’s always known it to be. “You know where to take ‘em.”

Both men obey. “Yes, Sir.”

Noora lowers her hands, watching them take hold of opposing sides of the crate. The animal yelps and jostles toward Red Mask who grunts and reels from the heavier weight.

"Easy now girl,” the bearded man coos at their prisoner. He snickers and it breaks into a wet cough. 

Noora relaxes and turns to Jacob. Her heart races at how the sunlight catches his eyes, like they’re pale blue crystals glimmering from the red bonfire of his hair, his beard, his skin. “John ‘n I came to check in. Saw you running up the trail,” he explains, uncrossing his arms and curling his fingers, beckoning her to follow. “I told him I’d come getcha.”

“Wait,” she huffs, jogging to catch up. Her slouched posture reaches his bicep, so she feigns a stretch, elongating her spine and lifting her chin to reach his shoulder.

Fifteen years ago she was a fuller 21-year-old, all breasts and hips (and she would add _some_ charm, though never as charming as John), and Jacob was the brooding, chiseled war hero. His muscles didn’t disappear over the years like her weight did—she can tell from how his henley shirt clings to him underneath his dark brown jacket, though he’s bulkier around the midsection from the gift of time and age.

She diverts her attention to their surroundings, her brain buzzing from the mountainous size of Jacob _Fucking_ Seed, her fantasies stacking in an embarrassing hurry about his arms enveloping her, and how she’d gasp under his weight, and how he’d thrust his— _Gah, stop it, yah’marra!_

Noora scratches a phantom itch behind her ear. “So what the hell was that about?”

He stalks forward in confident strides, determined, unlike Noora who measures each step to not stumble in front of him. Jacob responds, “Those men back there are hunters. They work for Joseph.”

He doesn’t elaborate, so _that_ hasn’t changed about him either. Jacob answers questions as plainly as he can and never gives more context unless he’s prompted. Every conversation like a puzzle where he hides the pieces behind his back. Luckily Noora gets paid to solve those.

“It sounds like they work for you too.” She mocks a salute in his direction. “Sir.” The nickname prickles her skin and ignites like a fever when the corner of his lip quirks. “So you must be in some kinda charge.”

“I oversee security for the community. Make sure they’re safe, fed, watered,” he asserts each word. As they stroll, he lifts handfuls of imposing branches high enough to duck under and holds them for her. “I train them to be strong and independent.”

“Ever the soldier.” She gestures to the side of her own head. “Explains the haircut. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shave it clean like that.”

He tilts his head, examining her through auburn eyelashes that strike gold in the sun. “Yeah,” he says like he’s thinking out loud, “Guess I haven’t seen you in a while.”

She tries not to ogle him as they continue downhill, but his textured skin worries her.

Noora remembers being young and nosy, asking John what happened to the surface of Jacob’s face, neck, and arms. She and John shared a menthol cigarette under a bridge after skipping class one scorching afternoon when he explained Gulf War Syndrome to her; on top of PTSD, Jacob suffered from skin problems, coughing fits, and some loss of memories. “He still looks out for us. He still would do anything for us,” he vowed.

John always talked about Jacob with huge round eyes, like a child describing an encounter with a superhero and thrumming with admiration. There was nothing his oldest brother couldn’t do back then.

But this is now, and Jacob’s skin is worse than she recalls. The pockmarks peppering his cheeks and the silvery scales cracking his rash-ridden hands aren’t new, but the scabbed-over sores trailing up his wrists are fresh. He catches her glance, and she flicks her eyes to her shoes, focusing on the autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t get a chance to say I’m sorry for your loss, Noora.”

Noora pulls her sleeves over her fists and shoves them in her sweater pockets, rubbing against the bulge of her revolver. “Thanks, Jacob.”

“If you, uh, wanna talk about it-”

“No.” She’s quick to add, “Thank you. Family’s just… complicated, y’know?” Her thumbnail finds a cuticle to pick, shredding the dead skin.

“Yeah I get that,” he sighs.

At the bottom of the hill, John waits next to Jacob’s black pick-up truck, one arm tucked behind his back. He flashes his teeth and dimples and unfolds his arm toward her, revealing a bouquet of flowers bursting from apple-green tissue paper keeping them together.

“What’s this about?” Noora asks, eyes moving from her reflection in his blue-mirrored sunglasses to the meticulous arrangement of white lilies, white roses, and another white flower she doesn’t recognize. It flares out like a trumpet and radiates a sweet, fruity aroma. She holds the base with two hands, bowing her head to breathe in more of the comforting scent.

“These are from Joseph,” John answers. “He wanted to deliver them himself but he had to preach this morning. He sends his deepest condolences, Noor.”

Her chest flutters at the childhood nickname. “That’s very kind. Please give him my thanks.”

“I will. Jacob and I would like to take you to breakfast if you haven’t eaten yet.”

They’re in high school again, John poking her side to ask when she last ate, or worrying his bottom lip when she returned from the bathroom after a meal with bloodshot eyes, shiny with tears. They never talked openly about her food issues. They never had to. John‘s family was troubled to the point that he could read and diagnose others on a near expert level, like he can discover even the most well-kept secrets with one conversation.

Food Issues. Another thing her therapist prods her about. “Do you notice how you avoid labeling problems directly? ‘Food issues’ instead of an eating disorder, or ‘brain stuff’ instead of major depression? Do you think you’re downplaying these issues? Maybe you don’t think you deserve treatment?”

She waves off John’s invitation. “No, no, that’s not necessary-”

“Oh, I insist. Come.” He wraps one arm around her shoulders and guides her to the truck, opening the door with his free hand. “Let’s get these flowers into water and then grab a bite.”

“I’m pretty sweaty and gross right now-”

“Then Jacob and I will wait as you get ready.”

“I don’t have much of a choice here, do I?” She jokes.

John laughs.

⁂

Noora checks her makeup with the front-facing camera on her phone for the third time, pretending to read an important email. She could kill John for rushing her. Usually, she speeds through her makeup routine, being on-call for so long, but with extra time she could’ve at least faked the coveted trend of a healthy-and-happy-adult. If only people knew how much effort it took to look effortless.

The truck’s squeaking brakes flip her stomach and she shuts her eyes, inhaling the pine freshener lingering with the aroma of the white flowers. A sneeze itching at her nose never comes, and for a fleeting moment she hopes she’s not allergic.

John twists from the passenger seat to address her. “Oh Noor, you have to listen to the music our community created.” He rifles through the glove box. “Jacob, do you have a cable to plug my phone in?”

“A cable?” Jacob asks.

“You know, those cables? Auxiliary?” He gesticulates with his fingers, testing out the word. “Whatever they’re called. How do you play music in this old metal box?”

“Cassette player.”

 _“Cassettes?”_ John spits the word out like poison.

Noora tightens her lips to stifle a laugh and watches Jacob’s eyes scanning the road ahead in the rearview mirror. They dart to meet hers. She fumbles with her phone again.

“You should know John,” Jacob starts with his indifferent voice. “Our family does not live up in the digital cloud.”

“Oh so _now_ you reference Joseph’s sermons. Honestly, brother.” He digs out earbuds from his coat pocket and hands them to Noora. “Here, use these.”

She hooks in the earbuds and watches John swipe through his phone. He bites his bottom lip, giddy. An upbeat song booms through the earbuds, the type of infectious rhythm that makes her boot twitch against the floor mats caked with dry mud.

 _Come brothers and come sisters, come weary and come strong_  
_Come meet the man who reaps the land, on which we walk upon_

If Eddie knew she listened to Christian rock in the back of an old, shitty pick-up truck in Montana and wanted to _tap her foot along to the beat,_ he’d never let it go. He’d probably call in the U.S. Marshals for a rescue operation. She wouldn’t blame him.

 _Oh John!_  
_Bold and brave!_  
_He’s findin’ us a family, he’s teachin’ us the faith_

She finds John’s beaming eyes and rosy cheeks, and her heart could melt for him. “Is this about you?”

“There’s one about each of us! Isn’t it incredible?”

It’s cheesy as all hell, but she mimics his excitement, like a mother’s encouraging awe at her kid’s first heavy-handed scribbles with crayons. “That’s really something, Johnny.”

In the rearview, Jacob’s eyebrows pinch and his crow’s feet wrinkle. “C’mon, John. Don’t encourage that shit.”

“You have to hear Jacob’s song!” He scrolls through his phone again.

“John-”

“Oh _please_ play it,” Noora urges. Jacob’s eyes narrow to scrutinize her in the rearview.

John’s song cuts off, and a moodier one replaces it, one where the drums punctuate heavy against the mournful wail of a harmonica. Definitely not a tune for dancing, which suits the eldest Seed well. A thick voice sings:

 _See the non-believers by the path_  
_Non-believers by the path_  
_Non-believers by the path_  
_Jacob’s gonna come and set those sinners free_

A rush of goosebumps have her biting the inside of her cheek, and she meets Jacob’s piercing eyes in the rearview again. She fails to hide a smile and he scowls in disapproval, though she swears that his cheeks now match his ginger hair.

She misses what John says next as he continues to search for more music on his phone.

⁂

They nestle in a booth of _Rye’s ‘n Shine,_ a diner with stiff cranberry benches and a pregnant waitress named Kim who makes no effort to welcome them. At first, she greeted Noora all friendly, and then her chipper voice dried after she noticed the Seeds behind her.

John and Jacob ignore it for the most part, like this treatment is routine, and it unsettles Noora. She fidgets each time Kim waddles to their table with a wrinkled nose and one-word replies. John goes out of his way to be overly kind, beaming at her with “thank you, dear Kim,” and “oh that’s so kind of you, Kim.” Noora fixates on her coffee to hide her amusement at his pettiness, and wonders if she should be more like that, to care less about what others think of her.

Jacob shovels the pile of meat and carbs he ordered into his maw like a starved predator while John delicately picks up pieces of honeydew melon with a fork. Noora pokes at her runny eggs with brown toast, taking a bite when John eyeballs her plate. The air of Food Issues stills awkwardly between them.

“I was thinking, Noora.” John lifts his cup of earl grey tea to his lips, blowing softly before testing with a sip. “When I saw you yesterday at the Sheriff’s Office, you had mentioned something about a white supremacist group.”

Jacob stops chewing and looks up from his plate at John.

“I know where you can find them if you need information.” He leans forward to Jacob. “You remember those men who harassed Jerome last year?”

Jacob gulps the rest of his black coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What about em?”

“We should pay them a visit.”

Jacob blinks twice. For a man who never seems surprised, Noora guesses he didn’t expect that. “Should we now?”

“They’re always at that disgusting bar.” John cringes. “Joseph would understand if we were there to get information for Noor.”

Noora waves a hand between the brothers and starts to ask, “What’re you talking-” when the front door of the diner swings open and the chimes startle her mid-question.

The man storming in wears a heavy beard covering the lower half of his face, a trucker hat, and so much flannel it looks like a headache. He rushes behind the counter to Kim and squeezes her shoulders. He rubs her arms as they speak in hushed voices. He kisses her forehead and fixes on their booth. He bares his teeth in a snarl.

His boots thud against the stained, checkered floor, slowing to a stop when he reaches them. “Hey _Seed,_ ” he hisses, pointer finger directed at John. “This is fucking harassment. I told you the next time you come near me or my wife, I’d drag you out myself.”

John goes rigid, mouth falling open. “Nick, please! You misunderstand. I’m not here for business.” He gestures to Noora. “My dear friend just lost her father and we’re taking care of her with a meal. Have some compassion-”

“Compassion?” Nick's voice booms. “For _you?_ For the filth you bring with you?”

Noora clutches her mug, palms absorbing heat through the ceramic until it almost cracks under pressure. The desire to throw piping hot coffee in this clown’s face grows.

The desire to protect John grows.

That urge first appeared when she was 10-years-old, walking home from school. A thin boy crawled on the sidewalk, red streaming down his nose and mouth, homework scattered around him. He was whimpering and sniffling, reaching for his tattered backpack with one hand and grabbing at the papers with another. Noora jogged to him. His attention snapped to her, his impossibly large blue eyes watering and teeth chattering like he’s frozen. She offered her hand and said, “I’m Noora.” He flinched. “Here,” she said, crouching down to bundle the loose papers into a neat pile. He pulled himself off the ground, wincing at his scraped knees, and wiped away tears and blood with the bottom of his shirt. “I-” he croaked. “I’m Johnny.” 

They walked home together every day after that.

Jacob calmly stands from his seat, eyes boring into Nick who puffs out his chest. He towers over Nick at full height, breathing down on him.

John tuts, fingers grazing against his brother’s sleeve. “No, Jacob. There’s no need for that.”

Nick licks his bottom lip, breath shaking somewhat while looking up at Jacob. “If you don’t get your ass outta here-”

Kim stands between Jacob and Nick, splaying her hand on Nick’s chest. “Babe,” she pleads.

At this point, Noora will grind her teeth down into dust, and despite knowing better, she intervenes. “No no, please.” Four pairs of eyes pin on her. “Nick, is it?” She fishes into her jacket pocket, fingers digging for the leather—“What’re you gonna do if we don’t leave?”—and slaps her badge down on the table between the plates of half-eaten breakfast. “I wanna hear all about it.”

They’re quiet for a heartbeat, two, three, the only sound between them comes from a radio on the counter and the ceiling fan blades whipping through the air.

Nick scoffs. “Screw this. Just pay your tab, and get the fuck out of here. We clear?”

Kim slouches as Nick stomps away. She doesn’t meet their eyes. “I’m… I’ll bring you the check.” It’s the most she spoke to them since they came in.

“I’ll take care of it,” Jacob says to John. He follows Kim to the counter.

Noora huffs, tucking her badge away. “The fuck was that about, Johnny?”

John gently wraps his fingers around her wrist. His voice is even, patient. “I appreciate your help, but please, don’t worry about that. We’re used to this treatment from some of the residents.” An abrupt smile brightens his face. “Skepticism is part of the process, part of what my brothers and sister are trying to bring to Hope County. Some are just not ready to face the truth yet.”

She wants to believe him. 

“Besides,” he releases her wrist, and his eyes dart to where his brother pays the tab. “I’m much more curious about you.”

She crosses her arms, legs. “Me?”

“And,” he trails off, eyes flickering to Jacob again.

Her entire body tenses. “Nothing’s happening, John.”

“Why? Is there someone else?” When she gawks at him, he implores. “So what’s the problem? Come on, the police officer and the soldier?” He rests his hand against his chest. “Two tortured souls bonding amidst a tragedy? It’s a story I’d read.”

She raises an eyebrow, warning him with her eyes.

His nose scrunches up. “It could be a romantic comedy! You two would need to constantly compromise who gets to sit facing the exits of every date night spot.”

“John.”

“I think I saw a little smile just now.”

“Look even if he,” she interrupts herself to correct, “or _I_ was interested, I don’t think I should be in a relationship of any kind at this point in my life.”

“Oh.” His lips part and shut. The next words drip out carefully, softly. “Yes, of course. I heard you’d had a troubling incident in New York.”

The corners of Noora’s vision cloud, a stream of thoughts chanting _for fuck’s sake FOR FUCK’S SAKE,_ blanketing each cell with festering rage. She uncoils her fists and smooths out the denim on her thighs. Her fingers tremble. Her most recent cigarette wasn’t recent enough.

“You heard that too? Jesus _fucking_ Christ how many people did he tell?” She catches herself. “Sorry for, the, uh. Blasphemy.”

John snorts, amused. “I take people’s confessions every day, I’d be worried if _that_ causes me to clutch my pearls. And your father told Joseph to ask for his counsel. He was worried sick about you.”

The thought sheds off like an itching layer of skin. “I don’t want to talk about this, John.”

He’s not smiling anymore, the creases on his face drawing together. “Of course, Noora.”

Jacob returns, jaw set. He folds a receipt between his fingers, twists it like it’s about to rip. “Let’s go.”

⁂

Back in the truck, Jacob and John bicker about their plans to visit the Spread Eagle and maybe talk to potential Men of the Night. Noora doesn’t listen too closely, doesn’t even know if this is a good idea yet. She watches the vast, rich green fields expand and stretch away through the smudged backseat window, catching signs as they pass.

**JOIN US**

**IN THE**

**BLISS**

In the time she’s known Jacob, she’s never heard him raise his voice. It dips even lower when he’s pissed, frosty and underscoring each word like he’s speaking to a child. Never pushed over the edge where he outright loses his temper, but hovering just above the breaking point. It’s worse when a person his size is silent like that. Noora reflects on the stone-cold murderers she and Eddie put away, the ones who sound like Jacob, who have the same profile. She shudders, files the thought in the “Not Telling My Therapist That” mental cabinet.

“I’ll take Noora.” Jacob saying her name jostles her from her thoughts. His eyes twitch in the rearview. “After that shit at Rye’s, you’re going back to the church.”

John tries to debate. “Oh don’t be dramatic, Jacob-”

The steering wheel creaks, and Noora realizes that Jacob’s nearly crushing it with his hands. “It’s not safe for you, John. I’ll drop you off at the church.”

John rolls his eyes to Noora. “I’m so sorry.”

She frowns. “For what?”

“The residents of Fall’s End aren’t,” he hesitates, “our biggest fans. But they especially loathe me. I hope we aren’t scaring you off or making you feel unsafe.”

She almost sputters with a laugh. “It’s gonna take more than a dick measuring contest to scare me off.”

“Good to know.” He winks.

The rest of their ride to the church is silent, save the rattling engine and wind whistling through John’s rolled down window. It’s not too long before Jacob pulls over in front of a small, white building with two armed guards at its entrance, donning unkempt hair and beards like beehives.

John pats his brother on the shoulder. “Try not to get into any trouble yourself, Jake.”

Noora shuffles from the backseat to take his spot after he exits. John closes the door behind her and leans in the open window, tattooed fingers curling in. “Noor, one more thing. Joseph emptied one of our churches for the survivors of the mosque attack. When you’re up for it, we can take you there.”

They share a brief smile, one that makes her feel light as air, one that makes her feel like it’s gonna be okay.

Noora waves goodbye at John and Jacob drives away. She watches him shrink in the side mirror as he approaches the church with purpose, not greeting the armed men who nod at him. Then, the church is out of sight.

**WE LOVE YOU**

**WE WILL TAKE YOU**

“So,” she breaks the silence. “The Spread Eagle still exists and they no longer like the Seeds, huh?”

“Pretty much. Mostly John, but they lump us all together.”

“And why is that?”

He thinks about it before he answers, “John’s a _persistent_ businessman. Some people don’t like that.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she snickers. “Look, I can go to the bar on my own. I don’t want to drag you guys into any trouble.”

“If you’re right about who murdered your old man, the men in there have something to do with it. I’m not letting you go in there by yourself.”

“You realize I’ve been a cop for _fifteen_ years now, right? I’ve chased killers on foot without backup.”

“So what, you don’t wanna have a drink with me? That it?”

Noora stutters, mouth agape, knowing by the mischievous glint in Jacob’s eyes that her tawny beige skin is a new shade of blush pink. “That-that’s not what I’m saying-”

“So it’s settled. I’m coming with you, Officer.”

“Detective,” she corrects, feigning offense.

For the first time that day, she sees Jacob smile.

⁂

To Noora’s delight, the dimly lit Spread Eagle still reeks like the bottom of a bootlegging operation, but now with a hint of disinfectant—a welcome and needed change. There’s something about dive bars that always gave her a sense of belonging: the surly patrons drunk by noon, the ability to come in solo or with a party, the jaded servers who’ve memorized the menu that hasn’t changed in a decade. She wants to wrap that rotten familiarity around her shoulders, a cashmere scarf of shit.

Their greeting is an episode of déjà vu where a strawberry blonde smiles with her eyes at Noora, and stops to glare at Jacob. Her clenched fist digs into her hip. “Y’know I’m not getting rid of alcohol no matter how many Seeds march in here to preach,” she drawls.

Jacob saunters up to the bar, cocky. Noora tilts her head at that. He says, “I don’t care about the alcohol, Mary May. And I ain’t here to preach.”

Mary May’s response is instant. “Then what the hell do you want, Jacob?”

Jacob rests his elbow on the bar and for the second time, smiles at Noora. “Pick your poison.”

Noora observes the two, the air weighing down as if a tumbleweed will roll in any minute. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. Mary May studies her up and down, one eyebrow raised, unimpressed. Noora requests, “Bourbon, please? On the rocks.”

Jacob hums, “Make that two.” Mary May’s face scrunches up, about to ask a question but unsure of what it is yet. “Please,” he adds.

She rolls her eyes away from them, to the display of alcohol bottles behind her. Each move drips with resentment; she slams two glasses against the black walnut countertop, tosses ice cubes in, and pours in the liquor with an upturned nose. “Anything else?” She grumbles.

“Jus’ keep an open tab. We’re stayin’ for a bit.”

She slides the two drinks toward them, crosses her arms across her chest. “Go on then.”

Noora follows Jacob to a corner booth, probably the one he sat in when she last saw him. “Aren’t you gonna get in trouble for drinking?”

“I’m not too worried about that.”

John’s joke about who sits facing the exit hits too close to heart when Jacob slides in the booth first, and she settles across from him, her back to the bar entrance. It’s dumb, but it makes her restless. Out of all people, she’s at least glad the person taking her preferred spot is a veteran sharpshooter.

Jacob lifts his glass to her. “Welcome home,” he says.

She clinks her glass against his, and they take their first sip with eyes locked. Between the sweet, smoky liquor and Jacob’s intense gaze, Noora’s skin shivers in a wave of goosebumps.

“Looks like we’re a bit early,” he says, checking out the rest of the bar. 

Noora surveys the joint, empty besides the two of them, Mary May, and a chef leaning out the kitchen window to watch them with a frown. She’s seen him around before, albeit his hairline wasn’t as far back as it is now.

She turns back to Jacob and says, “I remember when Mary May was just a kid and her dad ran this place. He retire?”

“Mm, no. Gary died a couple of years ago.”

“No shit? What happened?”

“Suicide.” He says it nonchalantly, matter-of-fact.

“Jesus,” she responds, wanting to say more but unable to get the words out. _I don’t blame him? Been there, almost done that? Lucky bastard?_ All she thinks to add is either inappropriate or a slippery slope into reliving trauma and opening old wounds. Something tells her Jacob isn’t the most equipped person to receive her own personal sob story, especially when it doesn’t compare to what he’s experienced overseas.

 _Grounding,_ she reminds herself. She focuses on the glass she’s cradling, how it numbs her already chilled fingers. Her ears find the sound of lasers emanating from the start screen of an arcade cabinet, which wasn’t there the last time.

_The last time. With Jacob’s tongue down my throat and rough hands pawing my tits._

”What’s so funny?”

She runs her finger from the rim of the glass to the thin cardboard coaster under it. “Just remembering the last time I was here.”

“Ah, the farewell shitshow.”

She hates that him remembering that night gives her butterflies. “It’s kinda cute,” she continues. “You and Johnny used to be the ones who’d cover for me when we went out drinking and now, the tables have turned, and I might need to bail _you_ out.”

Jacob contemplates that, a smirk tugging at his lips. “As long as you keep me away from tequila, we’ll be fine.”

Noora drops her jaw, pretending to dry heave. “ _Guh,_ no. That’s disgusting.”

His smirk morphs into a leer, and he leans forward on his elbows. “So you don’t remember the body shots?”

Her chest is tight, brain scrambling to connect what he just said to the disconnected memories of that night. “You’re joking,” she accuses. When his mouth fully commits to a shit-eating grin, Noora hides her face in her palms. “Good lord,” she groans.

Jacob chuckles. “He was certainly missing that night.”

She peels her hot face away from her hands, and throws back another swig of bourbon, ignoring his laugh. She clears her throat, desperately needing to change the subject. “And now you’ve found religion. I can’t say I predicted that one.”

His smile fades, lips pursing in thought. “Everyone has their purpose,” he says, looking down in his drink. “Mine is to protect my brothers and Faith. Even if I’m not the best example of Eden’s Gate,” he mirrors her swig.

 _My brothers and Faith._ Noora squints at how he said that, watching his knuckles flex under his scars when he lowers the glass. She doesn’t press on it, filing it in her _Hmm, How Interesting_ mental cabinet. She instead asks, “Does it make you happy?”

“It gives me _purpose_ ,” he repeats the word. She frowns. “Does being a cop make you happy? Surrounded by death all the time?”

“Putting bad guys away makes me happy,” she answers automatically, with confidence.

“And what about the days when the bad guys look like you? Planting drugs, shooting unarmed kids. You sleep well those nights?”

No. Neither her nor Eddie sleep well those nights, especially when they seem like a daily occurrence in the age of cell phones and social media. She opens her mouth to respond, but Jacob flickers his attention to something behind her.

When he looks at her again, he says, “Don’t turn around but our guys are here.” He leans forward, voice dropping an octave. “Just pretend what I’m telling you is _very_ interesting, Detective.”

Like he needs to tell her. Jacob could read a grocery list and it would burn right through her core. She nods, willing her eyes to not stare at his mouth when he continues.

”Two guys just walked in. They’ll head to the pool table after ordering a pitcher of beer from Mary May. The one with the baseball cap is Wade Burton, and the other is his loyal dog Jeb Graham.”

As if on cue, the two men pass their booth, strolling to the pool table and throwing back glances to Noora and Jacob. She risks her own casual glance, unsurprised to see more flannel, and looks back at Jacob.

”What we do next is up to you. We can talk to them, or-” his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip, “we can just keep an eye. Tail 'em. Whatever you feel comfortable with, _Detective,_ " he stresses the word, teasing.

She jumps when her phone vibrates in her pocket. She fumbles to get it out, mouthing an apology to Jacob. Caller ID says it’s Earl.

“Noora, hey.” He sounds exhausted. “I wanted to give you an update myself since word gets around so damn fast here. This a good time?”

“Yeah, what’s going on?” She taps the glass with her fingernails, feeling Jacob’s eyes on her.

“It’s Luke Barrett.”

Something in her stomach flutters, squirms.

“He’s in the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the "MEN HAVE MADE A LOT OF BAD ART" shirt on Etsy and instantly thought of Noora. Check it out here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/599898716/men-have-made-a-lot-of-bad-art-t-shirt (I didn't make this shirt!)
> 
> Glossary:  
> yah'marra = you donkey (you ass)
> 
> Thank you for the comments and feedback! Of course I came up with this story during the busiest time at work, so updates will continue to be sporadic. You all rock for reading <3.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and avoid if these are troubling topics for you to read. The author of this fic does not condone the actions of antagonists or attempt to glamourize these topics.

Earl and Noora watch Luke Barrett through a window again, this time in a hospital where he lies unconscious with tubes in his veins and cuffs chaining him to the bed. A white bandage covers a plane of skin between his nipples and the corner of a swastika tattoo. A nurse who looks like she could use a nap checks his vitals and scribbles on the chart next to him.

Earl waves a finger in Noora’s direction like he used to when she was a rookie-to-be, prompting her with a pop-quiz. He says, “Septicemia.”

“An infection? Some fuckin’ master race,” she scoffs.

“A piece of his skin was filleted off and consequently…” He motions to the window.

The reek of stomach acids wafts to her and she eyes Earl’s uniform. There's a damp patch on his forearm, speckled with lint from a paper towel. “He puke on you? ‘Cuz you smell.”

“Oh pardon me,” Earl deadpans. “I’m lucky he was already in the ambulance by the time he shit himself.” He scoffs when her face scrunches up. “I’m sure you’ve seen worse, city girl.”

"Shit, just being on the _subway_ in New York is like biological warfare." They chuckle. She ignores the weight dropping in her stomach, that desperation for normalcy as she watches the fucking piece of shit who murdered her dad just a few days ago.

A thought flickers by to smother Luke with a pillow. She blinks it away and unfurls her fingers.

Earl says, "At first I thought maybe he hallucinated something that made him peel off his own skin. Meth'll do that. But see, it’s a clean cut. Well not _literally_ clean hence why we’re standing here-” he smiles when she mutters _christ_ at his pun “-but clean in its movement, like someone sliced him with a knife. Too smooth for Luke to have done it to himself.”

_They should’ve finished the job,_ she keeps to herself. If Eddie was there, he’d remind her: _He’s just a kid, Hammy._

“He’s in my custody so I’ll be keepin’ an eye on him. When he’s up, I’ll tell you what I find out.”

“Thanks for calling me.”

“Yeah about that…” Earl faces her, arms crossed and shoulder leaning against the window. “I didn’t expect you to come with Jacob Seed. Since when’re you two friends?”

She mirrors his actions. “Y’know I was like, best friends with John-”

“I didn’t ask about John. I asked about Jacob.”

She tenses at how he says that. “We were catching up over a drink. Why does that matter?”

He takes a second to think it through, a scowl forming on his face. “I’m gonna tell you what I’ve told the citizens of this County who file complaints about the Seeds. There is not one goddamn thing they’re doing, that I’ve found, that even borders on criminality.” Earl scopes the area around them before lowering his voice. “Now be that as it may, there’s something _not right_ about Joseph Seed. He can make those followers of his do anything he wanted done, no questions asked. You don’t need to be a lawman to know that kind of power is nothing but trouble. Just be careful, okay?”

The weight in her stomach balls its way up her throat and she forces it back. She fakes a smile, hoping to ease his concern. Hoping to ease her own. “Earl, I’m just catching up with old friends. Besides-" she jabs him with her elbow- "I won’t even be here long enough to start much trouble.”

“The _much_ is what I’m worried about ‘n judging by the giant in the waiting room I’m guessing you’ve already got a head start.” He examines her, one hand on his hips, fingers curled around his belt, his other hand motioning between her and the direction of the waiting room. “So you two-"

“There’s nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar, kid.”

Noora rolls her eyes.

“See you answered too quickly and that’s always been your tell. You ‘member when I found you and Eli Palmer-”

“Oh my god,” she grumbles, rubbing her forehead, stifling a scream.

“-neckin’ in some parking lot-”

She swivels away on the heel of her boot. “Welp gotta go, Earl. Take care!”

He tugs at her elbow to stay, holding back a laugh with a slight wheeze. “Hold on, hold on.”

Earl fishes out a pad of paper and pen from his breast pocket and clicks the pen, shaking his head with a smile. He jots down a phone number and lets out a heavy breath. He tears off the sheet and extends it to her. “Since I’ll be here for a while, this is Deputy Joey Hudson’s number. She’s my right hand on this case and one of my very best.”

Noora slips the number in the back pocket of her jeans. “You letting me bug your Deputies now?” She jokes.

But Earl’s face turns serious, and a shudder creeps up her back, the air in the hallway icing over. “If you need anything, you call her. No matter how small the matter. Understood?”

“Copy that,” she answers quietly. She grips the back of her neck, rubbing the tension there in circles.

A sudden grin splits his features. “Y’know Eli Palmer is one of those doomsday preppers now?”

Noora drops her shoulders and throws her head back, straining out a melodramatic groan like an annoyed teenager. “God _dammit,_ Earl. Why would you tell me that?”

“Someone’s gotta make sure you keep going to therapy, sweetheart.”

Footsteps approach from behind—a man with a shiny ponytail, jowly cheeks, and a billy goat's beard. He carries a black briefcase and wears a cheap navy suit one size too big for his body. He asks, "Am I interrupting something?"

Earl steps toward him, puts on his official voice. "Not at all. Noora, this is Luke's attorney Winslow Peters. Mr. Peters, this is Noora Hamdi."

She shakes his hand. Its wet.

Winslow stammers, "Hamdi? As in…?" His protruding eyes bug out even more. "Oh dear. I'm so very sorry for your loss, ma'am."

She's grateful when he finally lets go of her hand and she discreetly wipes it on her pocket before casually thumbing a hold there.

"Sheriff, I don't mean to cause any offense, but may I ask what the daughter of a victim is doing outside my client's hospital room?"

Noora's about to speak when Earl says, "Noora was just sending Luke a prayer. It's what Faisal would've done."

Her mouth stays open.

"Oh," Winslow says, and seems just as surprised as Noora.

Earl guides her away from him, palm on her back. "But I think we're good now." They hurry away. Earl says over his shoulder, "I'll walk her out and be right back, Mr. Peters."

As they approach a pair of doors at the end of the hall, Earl loosens his hold on her arm. Noora asks, "Why did you just do that?"

Earl whispers, "Can't tell ya here. Talk to Joey Hudson."

He opens the door for her and she looks at him before saying goodbye, everything feeling wrong.

⁂

Noora heads back to the waiting room where Jacob sits in a seafoam-green plastic chair, cartoonishly too big for his surroundings. He's hunched, elbows on his knees, squinting through little rectangular glasses at a flip phone, the chrome barely visible in his massive hands.

"Nice glasses," she quips with a light voice. "I didn't even know they made flip phones anymore."

Jacob doesn't look up at her as he slowly texts, his face rigid in concentration. "Jus' you wait 'til you're old like me."

"You're not even 50 yet."

He peers up at her over the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, the blue of his eyes always a punch to her gut. "I'm close enough."

Noora lets him finish up and stuffs her hands in her jacket pockets, taking in the smell of antibacterial soap and the quiet click-clacking of the receptionist typing at her computer. She notices a cork board littered with flyers for counseling groups and disease awareness booklets. A pamphlet in the center that catches her eye; a young woman smiles beautifully at the reader with big emerald eyes and bouncy fawn hair, the perfect face for a stock photo. She wears a white flowing dress and a flower crown, a hulder calling in a lush garden.

**WALK THE PATH TO EDEN'S GATE**  
_Reduced cost rehabilitation treatments_  
_Sliding scale addiction counseling_  
_Private & confidential sessions with Faith Seed, LAC_

Noora has a specific memory of Faith Seed from the mid-90s. Sheryl Crow's "All I Wanna Do" was playing on the radio, and Noora remembers thinking it was the first time she had fully heard that song. If it came on in the car with her dad, he would turn it off and mutter _istaghfurallah_ immediately after Crow sings _We're drinkin' beer at noon on Tuesday._

Faith must've been at least 7 years old, and if Noora's math is still any good, that put her and John at 13. Noora babysat her a handful of times, covering for John while he ran to the cornerstore to buy cigarettes from a sketchy cashier who never asked for ID. She had only met Jacob and Joseph once or twice at that point, just in passing, both men working odd jobs to support their younger siblings. Jacob scared her back then, knowing he had been at war in the country she was born. Maybe a part of him resented her and her father as a result.

Noora sat in the Seeds' living room, on a stained area rug that used to be the color of a tangerine. She hummed along to the radio, mumbling the lyrics she didn't know, and painted her toes a vivid hot pink. Faith was beside her, ignoring the cup of applesauce in her hands to watch Noora paint with big blue eyes. Blue just like her older brothers, even brighter against her freckled skin and copper ringlets. Noora then painted Faith's nails while the little girl gawked excitedly.

_Faith Seed is a goddamn licensed addictions counselor now._ Pride swells in Noora's chest.

Jacob snaps his phone shut, tucks it into his pocket in one hand and slides his glasses off with the other. He grunts when he stands up, rubbing his lower back and frowning at the hard plastic chair. Noora huffs a quiet laugh in sympathy. He asks, "So what's the news?"

"Kid's got an infected injury."

He folds his glasses, his forehead furrowing at her reply. "From what?"

"Not sure yet." Noora wants to say more but doesn't find the energy. She stares out the doors of the hospital into the parking lot, willing herself to take a deep breath, her body sagging with an exhale.

Jacob's hand is on her shoulder, head dipped down to her height to catch her attention. "You okay?"

"Sorry, it's just," she wonders how to describe it. She gestures her hands around, alluding to the things she doesn't want to name, the things that aren't okay.

His hand remains, kneading gently, thumb brushing against the collar of her jacket. She lowers her gaze to the curve of his lips and her chest tightens. Jacob nods to the doors. "We can head back to the Eagle, get more drinks?"

She wants to say yes; she wants to melt into him and feel his hands everywhere, to lift on the tip of her toes and kiss him, but Earl's warning gnaws at the thoughts. There's a part of her that knows she's playing with fire. But goddamn if she isn't so fucking _lonely_ it hurts.

She shakes her head no.

Jacob gives her an up and down, eyebrows pinched in concern. He asks, "Y'wanna ride back to your cabin instead?"

⁂

The calling cards of Hope County's ghosts haunt the ride back: between Eden Gate's billboards there's a cartoon of Cheeseburger the fearsome grizzly bear, an advertisement for the 8-Bit Pizza Bar, a sign pointing east toward the Mastodon Geothermal Park. Fragments of disjointed memories flood back with each one, not in a warm way, in a way that overwhelms and chokes.

A choking that gives way to resentment and a bitter taste she swallows down whole.

She breaks the few miles of silence in Jacob's truck right when he decides to do the same. They dance an awkward exchange where neither person is sure who should speak next.

"Ladies first."

"I want to see Joseph," she says, somewhat ominously, so she clears her throat and casually adds, "Do I need to book an appointment or-"

"I'll take you tomorrow." It's a statement, like a decision. Like an order.

"I'm a big girl, Jacob. I don't need you to chauffeur me-"

"That's the only way," he interrupts. "Security's been tight at Joseph's."

"Because of the bombing?"

He presses his lips together before saying, "'Cuz of an attempt on his life a couple months back."

She gapes at that, and when he doesn't continue she spirals her hands out. "Care to elaborate _any_ further?"

His eyes narrow at her for a moment before returning to the road. "Some asshole tried to shoot Joseph during a sermon and that's why we increased security."

"Jesus. Was it one shooter acting alone?"

He glowers. "Joe says a lost soul but I'm not takin' that risk." He itches at his neck. "So many _questions,_ Detective," he jokes with a smirk tugging his lip, but Noora senses his irritation.

She studies how his jaw sets, how his knuckles tighten on the wheel. She drops the subject. "What were you gonna say?"

His eyes flick to her for a heartbeat, sadness clouding them, and he relaxes his shoulders. "If you need help with any arrangements Joseph can see to it."

_Fuck,_ she thinks. _Fucking fuck._

Noora didn't even _think_ about a funeral. The reminder deflates her, numbing her limbs with a slow pressing weight. She should feel guilty, but instead feels this deep kind of inconvenience, like her father died only to spite her and leave her with _shit to do._ She'd never been to a funeral before; her father believed it was forbidden for women to attend, leaving a seven year old Noora sobbing at a neighbor's home while he got to say goodbye to her mother.

"We can set up a private area to wash the body," Jacob continues. "And Faith should have white sheets for a proper burial."

Noora tilts her head at his knowledge of Muslim funerals. "How did you-"

"I saw a lot of funerals in Iraq."

_Ah._ In the time she's known Jacob, neither brought up the war. Hell, she and Grace Armstrong drank together before she left for Afghanistan and Noora kept her opinions to herself then, too. She leaves it all hanging in the air, some background noise to _hmm_ and _huh_ about if anyone prompted the conversation. Her father raised her with a level of caution as an immigrant that keeps her quiet, keeps her _compliant._ She was taught how to survive, not how to feel.

There is something that always bugged her when Jacob mentions Iraq, though.

_"Irr-rock."_

He glances at her with a question on his face, eyebrows up.

"It's pronounced _irr-rock,_ " she repeats, emphasizing the guttural vocalization at the beginning of the word. "Not _eye-rack._ "

He rumbles with a quiet laugh. "You've always been a smartass."

A mile of comfortable silence passes before they pull into her driveway. She begins to thank him when their eyes meet, his dropping to her lips, inching down her neck.

Nerves flutter in her belly and she thinks, _Fuck Earl's warning._

"Would you like to come inside?"

The ever calm and collected Jacob Seeds hesitates, taken off guard by the question. His mouth twitches downward and the nerves fluttering around harden in her gut. It takes him a second to respond, "I shouldn't."

Noora isn't sure where to look, fingers fidgeting with the loose metal door handle. Her brain tingles with _rejection rejection rejection_ and hopes the stutter of her voice isn't obvious. "Oh, okay!" She says a little too cheerily, a little too high pitched. Her anxiety propels her out of the truck as quickly as possible. "Well, thank you again!"

Jacob looks like he wants to say something, mouth opening then closing, before he nods. "I'll come get you tomorrow morning-"

"Yep!" She slams the door shut and rushes toward the cabin, dizzy and breathing hard.

The smell of lilies and orange peels is thick in the air outside her door, flooding her senses like a rush of nicotine. She fumbles with her keys before finally getting through, wanting to shove her face into a pillow and die from embarrassment. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets her head thump back against the door, waiting for Jacob's truck to drive away.

She gives herself a moment, the flowers' scent almost making her dizzier, and her stomach aching.

Noora opens her eyes. It's dark, only vague shapes of furniture looming like building blocks.

She sees a figure behind the armchair.

All her thoughts halt and she draws a revolver from her holster, directing it at the intruder. Her eyes adjust to see her father, standing, grinning at her. His teeth a silver twinkle in the dark, his face not disfigured like in the morgue, but still stretched across his features like a mask.

She knows her lips are moving and thinks she says, "Baba?"

Her numb palm gropes at the wall, eyes unable to move from his mouth creaking open. He wants to speak but can't, his teeth rattling and clicking against one another. The room getting smaller and tighter until her fingers flick the light switch. The brightness snaps like fingers and he's gone.

Not up in smoke, not up in flames; he was there and then he wasn't.

She runs her fingers through her hair, feeling the cold sweat on her forehead. A thought to call Jacob makes her laugh. _And say what? I think I saw my dad's ghost?_

She pours bourbon into a coffee cup and downs it, adding more before the liquor finishes trickling down her throat.

She once promised herself that she would never come back to this fucking place.

⁂

Google search results on Joseph Seed aren't exactly useful: "Hope County church builds new drug rehabilitation center." "10 Youth Pastors Hotter than the Depths of Hell." And Noora's favorite so far, "Church of Scientology honors local preacher with humanitarian award."

She slumps over her laptop, trying to justify the price she'll pay later on internet data from her phone's wifi hotspot. She sips from her coffee cup of bourbon, frequently peeking at the armchair where she saw her father. All the lights are turned on, a foolish sense of security.

Every few moments she whispers a silent prayer her mother taught her to dismiss evil spirits. _A’udhu billahi min ash Shaytan'ir rajeem._ It feels ridiculous for a grown woman who doesn't even believe in God anymore to pray, but some habits stick from being raised by religious parents. Prayers come out like muscle memory during flight turbulence, when chasing down murderers, or before a trial. A shot of comfort, followed by a wave of guilt to chase it down for not believing anymore, the perfect recipe for binge drinking.

On the second page of her search she clicks on a video by someone calling himself "The Archertect," a conspiracy theorist with a sizable fan base. The video is titled "TAKING A BREAK / APOLOGY TO JOSEPH SEED."

"Greetings fellow skeptics!" A man in a Guy Fawkes mask waves to the camera. "Uh, so, today's video is a bit different from my other series. A few of you asked why I took down my last video." He looks around, hesitating. "And, well, I was wrong. What I said about Joseph Seed and the People of Eden's Gate was false. I'm sorry. I think I got, uh, a little too deep with this one and it made me realize I need a little break." He laughs, and it's nervous. "And honestly, there are some, uh, legal things I'm going through now so I need to make sure I'm sorting things out. Check out the links below if you want or can donate to help my legal fees, I would appreciate any help so much. Ok, guys. Be brave. Be vigilant. Be free. The Archertect is logging off." He salutes to the camera.

The comments are disabled.

Noora closes her laptop and rolls her neck, grunting at the strain. She throws back the rest of her drink in one gulp, and shuffles to the kitchen to light a cigarette with a barbecue lighter. She fiddles with the phone number Earl handed to her.

It goes straight to voicemail. A woman says, "You've reached Deputy Hudson. Leave me a message with your name and number and I'll return your call when I can." _Beep._

"Hi Deputy Hudson, my name is Noora Hamdi. I got your number from Earl Whitehorse. I was hoping we can talk about my dad's case. Could you call me back?" She leaves her number and hangs up, lifting the cigarette back to her lips and inhaling.

Her temples pulse, an invisible pressure squeezing the sides of her head. She closes her eyes, the room still spinning behind her lids and the citrus smell of those flowers itching her nostrils.

Her phone vibrates against the counter, an unknown number calling. Noora picks up, "Hello?"

"This is Deputy Hudson. I got your message."

Noora tries to respond, but Joey keeps talking.

"Meet me at the Spread Eagle. Alone. Don't tell anyone where you're going."

"Hold on-"

Joey hangs up.

Noora glares at her phone. She says out loud to no one, "What the fuck?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team Joey for life <3.
> 
> I added some more personal touches to this one, I hope it's not too much! Comments give me life! Thanks all for reading.
> 
> Glossary:  
> astaghfirullah = I ask Allah forgiveness (often used as a form of disgust at something shameful, sinful)  
> a’udhu billahi min ash shaytan'ir rajeem = I seek Allah's protection from Shaytan (Satan, also applies to all evil spirits)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags and avoid if these are troubling topics for you to read. The author of this fic does not condone the actions of antagonists or attempt to glamourize these topics.

Noora stands outside the Spread Eagle where oldies rock thrums through the bar and drowns out the buzz of nighttime insects. The bass vibrates in her gut, twisting it into knots as the stiff air corrodes her nerves. She has to keep it together.

She decides to text Eddie, **_“JIC Spread Eagle.”_**

It’s a grim code, a buddy system signalling a deeper fear; _just in case you don’t hear from me again, my last whereabouts are-_

Eddie’s response is instant. **_“No fucking way that place is real.”_**

She shifts her weight back to frame a shot of the bar’s neon sign with her camera, fitting the silhouette of a winged woman in a teeny tiny bikini straddling the bar’s name. The lights are almost blinding against the evening sky. A cigarette hangs from Noora’s lips, the smoke watering her eyes as the message tangles with Hope County’s shit reception, finally sending after a couple of re-tries.

Noora grins when he responds, **_“I am legitimately speechless.”_** She flicks her cigarette, the bright cherry bounces off the gravel and rolls across the paved road. She pulls the front door, the familiar stench of beer and grease wafting against her face and the chimes ringing in her ears.

She’d secretly hoped that Mary May’s shift would be done by now, but there she stands, wiping the countertop clean. She scoffs and whips the rag over her shoulder, folding her arms against her chest, nose upturned. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

A hot flush radiates through Noora. Luckily before she can react she thinks _play nice, now._ She forces a smile and ignores the question. “Is Deputy Joey Hudson around?”

Mary May draws herself up to her full height, a frown tugging at her lips. “What d’you want with Joey?”

“She told me to meet her here. You seen her?”

Mary May’s eyes dart to her right when she answers, “No.”

She follows Mary May’s unintentional signal; people tend to unconsciously flick their eyes to the hiding spots of what they want to keep hidden, when they’re lying. She notes the stairs leading up to the level above and her jaw clenches. “Look, she called me, so just let her know that I’m here.”

A silence falls between them, the women trading glares and sizing each other up, like cowboys about to duel, and Mary May cedes with a huff of frustration. She reaches for her phone behind the bar and her thumbs move in a flurry across the screen as she texts. Noora watches her face; she’s young, probably mid-20s, and she wonders how long Mary Mary had to be on her own to grow that tough shell.

Mary May slips her phone in her back pocket and crosses her arms again, lips pursed and eyes defiant like she’s mentally calling Noora every foul name she can muster. Footsteps thud down the stairs and a dark-haired woman pokes her head out to the bar.

“M, it’s okay. I called her,” she says with a soft voice. To Noora, the woman whom she assumes is Joey, nods behind her with her chin and her soft voice hardens. “Come on up.”

Noora follows, sensing Mary May burning holes through her skull on her way. Joey leads her up narrow stairs and invites her to enter a small office where scattered paperwork litters most of the flat surfaces—papers across the desktop and keyboard, on top of boxes, on top of other paperwork. The one thing untouched is a framed photo of Mary May kissing Joey’s cheek, who beams at the camera while holding up a bull trout half her size. The frame is embedded with a double entendre, _What a catch!_

The stink-eye downstairs suddenly makes sense to Noora.

Joey shuts the door and clears her throat. Noora faces her, first noticing Joey’s hand perched on her gun holster. The dynamics of the situation—tucked away room, blinds drawn, dim light, an armed police officer in a town that seems to hate Noora with every passing minute—they roll through her stomach and calcify in the pit.

“Could you unbutton the top of your shirt, please?”

Noora’s thoughts screech to a halt. “Come again?”

“Unbutton the top of your shirt,” Joey repeats. “Please,” she adds, but it almost sounds like a warning.

Noora doesn’t move.

Joey rolls her eyes, as if what she’s asking of her should be an obvious, normal request where Noora is supposed to readily comply. “Members of Eden’s Gate tattoo their sins on their chest. I need to know I can trust you, and I can’t trust you if you’re one of those fucking cultists. Now,” she motions to her own collar. “Please.”

The explanation prompts more questions in Noora’s mind than answers, but she won’t risk losing any drip of information from Joey. _Play nice._ She unbuttons the top of her shirt, just enough to tug at the collar and expose a plane of unmarred skin underneath her collarbone. After Joey scans her chest and their eyes meet, Noora blinks and deadpans, “Happy?”

“It’ll do,” Joey sighs. Her shoulders sag and she leans back against a file cabinet, but her hand remains on her holster. “Thanks for coming. Sorry about that.”

Noora buttons her shirt back up, not attempting to hide the confusion on her face.

“How well do you know the Seed siblings?”

 _Kelba,_ Noora wants to growl, perplexed at this Deputy’s complete lack of bedside manner, but instead she says, “I mostly know John. Jacob a little bit, and I babysat Faith a couple of times if you can call that _knowing_ someone. Joseph, though, can’t say I kno-”

“Well they seem to trust you,” Joey cuts in, almost too quick, like she’s been waiting to spit it at Noora.

“We haven’t talked in fifteen years-”

“But you’re picking up just fine, right?” Joey interrupts her again, and Noora feels her eye twitch. “I heard about your run in with the Ryes and the googly eyes you were throwing at Jacob over drinks.”

Her blood boils, the breath fuming from her nose loud enough for both to hear. Her therapist’s voice dings her thoughts, _“Remember to breathe whenever you feel angry. Inhale counting to seven, hold your breath for a count of seven, and then exhale counting to seven."_

_No._

Noora blocks his voice out, allowing her temper to seize her, to dictate to each cell. The walls of the office tighten and she steps forward to close them in further.

“Let me get this straight,” she hisses, each word drenched with venom. “Your job is to figure out how some _kid_ got his hands on a _fucking rocket launcher._ And you’re bringing the _victim’s daughter_ out here in the middle of the night, about to draw your pistol, to…” she trails off, waiting for Joey to say something, to explain herself, but Joey’s mouth tightens in a line. Noora’s voice almost shakes. “Give me one fucking reason to not end your career with a 20 second phone call.”

Joey flinches, lifting away from her sidearm, raising her palm out. Her voice returns to the softness Noora heard earlier. “I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

Noora backs up, muscles quivering when she attempts to slow her breathing, to prevent the cycle of seething vitriol from crashing into profound self-loathing. She uncoils her knuckles and says, “Let’s try this again.” Calmer, but tight. “I’ll start. Why are you so interested in the Seeds?”

Joey speaks low, careful, as if someone could overhear. “A lot changed in fifteen years. A _lot._ At first it was just a small tent revival that Joseph started. Y’know, they actually did good back then, helping people off drugs and finding them honest jobs.” She fidgets with the sleeve of her uniform. “I guess that’s why we didn’t question them at first, no matter how weird they were. We didn’t see it coming.”

Noora’s spine tingles cold.

“It got to a point where it’s like-” she gesticulates with her hands, gathering the words “-we knew something was wrong, but we didn’t want to know. We chose not to.”

“What are you talking about?” Noora means to coax and soothe but the question trembles out.

“Their growth. There are _hundreds_ of Peggies all over the county.” She ticks off each grievance on a finger. “They started forcing people out of their homes, carrying rifles everywhere, and then Joseph started broadcasting his bullshit about the fucking _Collapse.”_

Noora stares, watching Joey’s jaw slack, obviously missing something.

Joey’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Apocalypse. End times. Whatever you call it, they’ve gone full-blown cult and they outnumber us.”

There’s a dreadful numbness as Noora processes that, but she shoves aside the potential reality that her childhood best friend may have fallen victim to a genuinely dangerous cult (or worse _began_ it); a more pressing question rasps from her dry throat. “What does any of this have to do with my dad?”

Joey struggles to respond at first, her lips part and shut amidst an internal debate. She lets out an exhale and finally says, “I have a C.I. that saw Luke hours before he blew up the mosque and-” she hesitates “-we believe the last person he talked to was Faith Seed.”

⁂

Downstairs, Joey offers an olive branch, correct in her hunch that Noora would need a drink or four before they continue this conversation. She orders a round of Moscow mules, declaring something about the cocktail being a Montana specialty. Her fingers graze over Mary May’s when she reaches for her own drink, the two lingering for a beat, trading secretive smiles. There’s a sting in Noora’s chest as she catches the moment. Her fingertips rattle against the copper mug.

Joey lifts her mug in Noora’s direction. “To your old man.”

In the thick of all the pain, all the frustration and resentment, Noora can’t stop the deep, genuine bark of laughter that she reserves only for Eddie and the occasional late night television show. It startles Mary May and Joey, and she’d flush in embarrassment if she could will her body to stop shaking.

She wipes at her eye, and between chuckles manages to explain, “Sorry, I just-” she exhales. “That’s a very kind gesture, but, he wouldn’t appreciate given the-” she sweeps her hand over her front, motioning “-Muslim upbringing and all.”

Joey’s face is blank for a second before her eyes are round and her mouth parts. She rubs her forehead, her skin reddening even in the mood lighting. Her voice is sincere, and it makes Noora smile wider. “I am so, _so_ fucking sorry-”

Noora dismisses her with a wave and raises her drink, twirling the ice cubes in it. She nods at Joey with her chin to encourage her to do the same. “To my old man.”

Joey wavers before clinking their mugs together, and offers Noora a small apologetic smile. They drink, and Noora hums at the unexpected spice of the cocktail. Mary May says, “Now tell me that don’t have a kick to it.”

Moments like these ache; the chosen life of solitude betrays her, carves her open and rips at her insides, forcing her to confront it, to call it by its actual name. Loneliness. Bitter, festering loneliness.

She keeps drinking.

“My partner is looking into Faith Seed’s background,” Joey says quietly. “When she was sixteen, she disappeared.”

That gets Noora’s attention.

“She wasn’t reported missing though. When people started talking, asking questions, Joseph said she moved in with their aunt in Georgia. Y’know they’re from there originally?”

No.

“Mhm,” she punctuates with a nod. “Some backwater. Anyway, Faith suddenly came back a couple of years ago, some addictions counselor now. We’re trying to see if anyone back in Georgia can give us more intel.”

Noora chews on her lip, thoughts gnawing to find patterns, answers. “She could’ve been talking to Luke to help him get clean,” she muses.

“That’s one explanation. Either way, we’re doing it right this time.”

Noora cocks her head.

Joey taps her fingers against the countertop, glancing around uneasily to sweep the bar patrons before leaning closer to Noora. “The Seeds sued the Sheriff’s Office for harassment not too long ago and we had to settle. So getting a warrant is gonna take a long fucking time and we need to be _thorough.”_

Noora’s eyebrows raise. “Hold on. Harassment?”

Joey swallows, like she’s bracing, like what she’s about to say is going to piss Noora off. That alone starts to piss Noora off. “There was an altercation. I broke up a fight between John and Nick, and John wasn’t cooperating. So,” she shrugs, “I cuffed him.”

Mary May lets out a little snort, and Joey shoots her an incredulous look. Mary May surrenders her palms and says, “I’ll go check on customers. Call out if you need me.” She hurries off.

Joey continues, “I was taking John back to my car and he made this-” her jaw sets “- _disgusting_ comment about Kim. And I punched him.”

The cocktail pools in Noora’s mouth as she processes that, and she gulps slow, the realization settling. “So you assaulted a lawyer while he was handcuffed?”

Joey tenses. “I know I fucked up, okay? I fucked up big. John took us to court and the fucker-” she stops herself, remembering Noora’s friendship and grits through clenched teeth, “Sorry.”

Noora knows she’s not.

“He documented every interaction he and his siblings had with the Sheriff’s Office that could be questioned. Called it a sustained, deliberate campaign to intimidate his family.”

“Why are you telling me this, Joey?”

Her eyebrows gather. “I figure I should come clean to earn your trust. Because I need your help. No one in Eden’s Gate will talk to us without John and his entire _team_ of lawyers.”

“But they’ll talk to me,” Noora finishes for her. Joey doesn’t respond. Noora groans, pushing her palms against her eyes until a kaleidoscope of black and white patterns burst. “God fuckin’ _dammit,_ Earl.”

“Don’t blame him. This is on me.”

Noora starts and stops her next words about three times before she gives up, unsure where to begin, unable to fathom the sheer fucking incompetence. She decides to say nothing, finishing the rest of her drink in one swallow. She waves Mary May over for a refill.

⁂

The evening chill provides Noora some comfort. She smokes her second cigarette outside, leaning against one of the bar’s windows and taking in the scenery of Fall’s End. The Spread Eagle seems like the only place with life in it, the convenience store across the way hollow and the church around the corner shrouded in darkness, abandoned.

Tomorrow she’ll meet Joseph and Faith. The reminder sinks; the back of her mind itches, ponders too long on what the Seed siblings have become. _You could’ve stopped it,_ a voice prods, and the knowledge is almost alarming. She wonders what Hope County would look like if she never left, and the possibility of she and John degrading into enemies over Eden’s Gate pulls a string in her chest. _Would I have joined them instead?_

She hears the rumbling of a sputtering engine and a voice echoing from loudspeakers before she sees a white pickup truck roll by, adorning a painted starburst cross on its side. The voice preaches, _If you are hearing these words, then there is hope._

Noora shudders.

A man slips out of the passenger seat, covered in tattered clothes and a dense beard, and moves with purpose toward the bar. Noora tosses her cigarette and slinks through the door, the preaching from outside mixing with the music.

_Hope is the rock on which we build our future._

“Thought you were going home-” Mary May freezes mid pour. “What’s wrong?”

“Weird guy coming in-”

The chimes ring, ushering the voice outside long enough for Noora to hear _know that you are not alone_ before the front door closes again. Mary May blinks rapidly, unable to process the man storming in. Noora scans the bar to discover Joey’s gone; an unnerving lull clouds over, everyone tensing at the intruder.

“Drew?” Mary May stutters. Relief flickers across her face, then dips to an icy glare. “So you’re one of them now?”

“Stop tryin’ to reach me, Mary May.” 

“Those are the first fuckin’ words you say to me?” The question booms and Noora realizes the music had stopped. Joseph’s voice reverberates from the truck’s speakers, lurking in the background, and Noora’s instincts place her hand on her hip, near the revolver concealed by her jacket.

“Until you see the light, until you join the people, we have nothing to say to each other.”

“You’re fuckin’ shittin’ me, Drew-”

“The gates of atonement are no joke, Mary May-”

“Get the hell out-”

“You must confront your weakness-”

Mary May pulls a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter, eyes like crosshairs over the barrel aimed at Drew. There’s a heavy silence, as if all the air was ripped from the bar. “I said get out.”

Noora’s fingers inch to her revolver and a hand rests on her shoulder. Joey mutters from behind, “If you pull on her I _will_ take you down.”

She listens to Joey.

Drew shuffles back, eyes welling with pity, softly shaking his head. “I pray for you every night, Mary May,” he says quietly before exiting, Joseph’s sermon filling the silence when the door swings open.

_-bruised by rejection, each of us has earned for fellowship-_

Their collective inhale holds until the truck drives away, taking Joseph’s muffled echo with it. Mary May sets the shotgun on the countertop, and meets Joey halfway in a rushed embrace. Noora watches Joey kiss the top of her head, letting Mary May melt against her chest. The adrenaline simmers and people return to normal, hushed conversations awkwardly stirring and the jukebox kicking back on.

Noora’s pulse hammers in her ears at the immediate change; no one checks in on Mary May, no questioning looks. This is normal to them. This is routine in Hope County.

Joey meets her eyes, still holding on to Mary May. “Please tell me you can help us, Noora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not entirely happy with where this chapter went, but I just wanted it out out out! thank you for reading <3


End file.
